Max decided to reward me for yesterday’s vet trip by plopping all 15 of his furry black and white pounds onto my face at 5:30 this morning. I don’t think it was Good morning! but rather Die, stabby place traitor, die!
I should have been irritated, but he woke me up from a disturbing dream, and while I kind of wonder how it would have ended, I’m a little grateful.
All I remember is being in a theater-type place, on an upholstered bench, saving a spot for the Spouse Thingy. Some old guy plopped down next to me and wouldn’t get up…so I beat him up. Not just slapped around or one good punch—I beat the holy hell out of this guy.
For sitting next to me and not wanting to get up, I wailed on this really old guy, punch after punch after punch.
I don’t get it.
Max will remain on the antibiotics, 2 weeks on then 2 weeks off, for the foreseeable future. We’ve taken the sting out by not shoving the pills down his throat; instead, we smash it up and mix it with a teaspoon or so of his food. He can taste it and still hates it, but he knows we have more food waiting for him and he has to finish what he has before he can have it.
Yep, we’re mean. At least he seems to think so.